


the Fair Belle

by lovelessly



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Cowboys, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Genderbending, Historical, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Other, Prostitution, Western
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-15
Updated: 2013-11-15
Packaged: 2017-12-31 05:33:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1027824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovelessly/pseuds/lovelessly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(extremely old kink meme fill reposted here for archive purposes)</p><p>For the prompt - In the time of the cowboys and the U.S. expansion West, French prostitutes were deported out of France and some moved the West to become a real hit with American cowboys, settlers, miners, etc. because there was so few women.<br/>So France, a prostitute in the West, gets a "visit" from a cowboy America. No redeeming factor in this fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Soiled Doves

The first thing he notices is her height. He isn’t short by any means, but she doesn’t need to crane her neck to look him in the eye, and that even without the added lift of her heeled boots. Maybe she is not exactly pretty - more striking, foreign, with heavy-lidded blue eyes and golden hair elaborately arranged with feathers and silk flowers, a strong profile marked by a long straight nose and angled jawline. She reminds him of a catamount, beautiful, unknowable, dangerous… And he is a fool for falling in love with a whore.

He feels out of place here, surrounded by wealthy gentleman and elegant courtesans, only a humble cowboy who managed to save up a bit of extra cash, but he sweeps off his hat as she approaches, sketching a quick bow.

“Bonsoir, monsieur Jones,” she murmurs huskily from behind a lace fan, curtsying slightly. “How may I be of service tonight?”

He grins at her and says, “Well, I ain’t no monsieur, miss. You can just call me Alfred or Al, I sure as heck won’t mind.”

She lowers the fan, and her smile is enigmatic. “Certainly, Al. My name is Frances, and I am honored to be your companion for the night.”

Holding out a gloved hand for him to take, she then steers him towards a private nook, where they may drink and converse before getting around to their intended transaction. The conversation usually only lasts a few minutes, Blonde Marie’s girls are ever in high demand, but time somehow slips away as the young man promptly regales her with his adventures on the cattle trails. It sounds like Alfred F. Jones has done just about everything there is to do in the wilds of the West, trying his hand at herding longhorns and taming broncos, traveling from the Texas hills to the Kansas plains, and what he has lived through would fill up more than one lifetime, and he is just eighteen years old. Frances knows only the brothel in Paris, the ship that brought her to America, the endless series of trains that abandoned her here in the parlor houses, but for him, she laughs and gasps and sighs and occasionally asks for the meaning of a word she does not know. Her smiles are almost not faked, and he feels like a king.

Or maybe it’s just the champagne talking, but he doesn’t give a damn about that, either.

They make it up to her room eventually, prompted by a meaningful glare from the madame. Alfred gallantly scoops her into his arms, grunting a little at her weight and the way her stiff petticoats fluff into his face. Frances plants a kiss on his cheek, causing him to blush and stumble, and they collapse onto the bed in a shower of laughter.

Alfred tells her she's beautiful and smothers her face with kisses because he just can’t get enough of how she smells and tastes and feels underneath him. He had been thinking of her since he first arrived into town and saw her tossing stale cake crumbs to the doves in the grey light of dawn, had loved her since then with all the wild heedless passion his heart possessed.

Her eyes glitter wickedly in the candlelight as she runs her hands down his sides, and that soft, sensual chuckle hums through his skin and bones like wildfire. Suddenly, Frances curls up and wrestles him onto his back with surprising strength, and though he blinks in confusion to see her smiling down at him, he thinks that he’s gonna like this. He’s never even met a French person before, at most a Creole or two from the bayous, but he is impressed, and interested. Real interested…

“Is this your first time here, Al?” Frances asks as she slips the headdress out of her hair, letting the wheat-blonde waves cascade over her white shoulders. She then peels her gloves off with slow deliberate movements while Alfred stares and stares and tries to make his mouth work again.

“Y-yeah,” he admits, trying to look nonchalant, but the weight of her body centered on his groin is making this difficult, and he barely hears her reassuring him that she is a professional over the sound of his thudding heart. Still a little giddy from the champagne, Alfred goes nearly cross-eyed watching her untie the black ribbon around his collar and then slide it free.

“Please, hold your hands up,” she whispers, dangling the ribbon in between her slender fingers.

“Huh? Err… Oh. Oh, right.”

He reluctantly moves his hands from where they are resting at her corseted waist, and gracefully, Frances binds his wrists to the iron railing of the bedstead, knotting the tie just loose enough to let the blood circulate. If Alfred hadn’t been blushing before, he sure is now, and he wonders if it’s not too late to say this is actually his first time with a woman, ever. But despite the nervous fluttering in his stomach, he is still grinning, bold as brass, and Frances smiles encouragingly at him in return.

With her knees on either side of his waist, she arches over him and brushes her lips against his, just the lightest hint of a kiss, and Alfred can’t help himself from straining at his bonds, needing to take her into his arms. Murmuring something in French, she places a hand on his chest to hold him down, causing him to pout a little as he falls back onto the pillows. Such adorable excitability from her handsome customer does not go unnoticed, and for the first time in a long time, Frances decides to indulge herself. To hell with Marie; for now, she will be his lover and no one else’s.

Even though he could probably break free of the tie at any time, Alfred is much too busy watching Frances as she kisses a line down his bared chest. He shudders each time her warm lips press against his skin, he groans aloud each time her teeth nip at his flesh, and when she finally reaches the trail of blond hair at the hem of his jeans, his cock is straining painfully hard against the denim.

She glances up and catches his wide-eyed gaze, then rubs the palm of her hand hard against his groin, and Alfred swears frantically under his breath because that felt too damn good to be real.

“Oh God, Frances,” he mumbles, bucking his hips instinctively.

Saying nothing in reply, Frances starts to unbuckle his belt and unfastening his jeans, sliding the material away just enough to free his erection from its confines. The cool air brushing against his cock makes Alfred hiss a little, and Frances’ next move makes him react even more violently.

“H-hey, what are you doing?!” he chokes out, and she blinks at him in faux innocence, fingers still wrapped around his length.

“What you are paying me to do, my darling.” He may be just a boy, but dear sweet Alfred is definitely a man where it counts most, Frances thinks, and she moves her hand admiringly up his erection, imagining how wonderful it would feel deep inside her.

Alfred tries to keep the embarrassing whiny noises from tumbling out of his mouth, but the way she is stroking and pumping away, her fingers squeezing a tight loop around his erection, it’s so much better than his own hand, and he is afraid he’s going to come right now. At last, Frances lets go, that gorgeous smile still lingering on her cherry red lips, and he doesn’t get to finish breathing a sigh of relief before she goes down on him in a creak of whalebone and rustle of petticoats. She plies her tongue against his straining cock, lapping up the precum dripping down the underside, and when she hums in enjoyment of this task, Alfred gasps and curses again as he yanks at the piece of cloth keeping his arms trussed up and away from her. He can’t even get out the words to beg for more, but he doesn’t need to, because Frances senses he is close, and she obliges him by wrapping her lips around the head of his cock and sucking as she takes more and more of him into her mouth. She moves her head back a little for every time she inches forward, hollowing her cheeks and pressing hard against the salty flesh with her tongue, and she looks up to see his flushed pretty face, his sky-blue eyes now squeezed shut, his mouth in the shape of an “oh” as he groans in pleasure.

Then Alfred comes, yelling Frances’ name hoarsely as he jerks and shudders and spills into her hot, welcoming throat, and she swallows around his cock as she drinks him down. He is panting so hard for breath when he collapses onto the mattress, his vision still full of stars, his bones turned into molasses.

“Well… fuck, that was… that was amazing, Frances,” he says breathlessly, laughing a little.

Frances does not answer, she instead finishes licking him clean, kisses his softening cock one last time and allows herself a few seconds to compose herself. Tucking her hair back behind her ear, she runs her tongue over her teeth and lips, and Alfred has to bite back another whimper at such a natural, sensual gesture.

“It was my pleasure, cher Alfred,” she finally murmurs, regarding him through long pale lashes, and just the way she says his name is like another orgasm in itself.

Though he struggles against sleep, Alfred can not keep his eyes from closing, his tense muscles relaxing, and the last thing he remembers is Frances untying his arms and rubbing the feeling back into his hands, and he drowsily wonders how she got to become a whore in the first place with such a flat chest.

 

He dreams of making love to her, straddled in his lap, moving deliciously slow upon his erection amidst the drifts of petticoats, uttering quiet breathy gasps as she lifts herself up and then pushes back down hard. Alfred is not quite so poised, and he squeezes her thin body close, growling as she clenches around him, savoring the strange and incredible feeling of being inside her like this. Thankfully, it isn’t long before her breaths become shallower and more erratic, movements growing increasingly unrestrained once she frees herself from the last bit of self-possession that had marked her actions this night. In the dim light, she shimmers like liquid gold, and he grazes his teeth against her exposed throat, feeling rather than hearing her husky, sultry moans as they move together, ever closer.

A beautiful thing when he rocks his hips, pushing deep into her one last time, crying out as he releases, when her eyes snap open upon reaching climax, and their breaths intermingle in each other’s desperate open-mouthed kisses as they float back down to reality.

Perhaps stupidly, he confesses that he loves her in the silence afterwards, but Frances simply smiles, her eyes crinkling at the corners in genuine happiness. She nods and says something in French that he hopes means “I love you, too,” but more likely means “You are an idiot.”

He’ll take either one.

 

The dream ends abruptly as Frances shakes him awake, hair flawlessly rearranged, face again powdered white, lips a stunning scarlet. She tells him he must leave now, she expects another whore and her patron will be wanting to use this room soon. His brain can barely function as he fumbles in his vest and hands her a small pouch full of gold dust, which she tucks away into her bodice with a whispered thanks. Unable to resist the temptation, Alfred leans forward to kiss her, and even though her eyes widen slightly, she lets him press his lips against her own soft mouth. Then she breaks the kiss and turns away abruptly, leaving him stumbling after her.

Downstairs in the main parlor, Frances concludes their business in a low, crisp tone, and though she invites him to come back anytime, her guarded expression does not show much hope of that occurring. Still in a daze, Alfred bids her farewell, and zombie-like, shuffles off to his own room at the inn across the street, to sleep the rest of the night hours alone.

 

He remembers when he wakes up late the next morning, as his belly growls loudly for sustenance and his groin feels like it’s been pounded into shreds by a hammer. It’s a good pain, he tells himself, because it means he is now a man, thanks to the attentions of the sweetest belle in the entire West.

The other cowboys from the cattle drive nod and wink at Alfred when they see him at breakfast, occasionally slapping him on the back and making him wince, which in turn makes them laugh. They rib him mercilessly about his good luck, to have the balls to get into Blonde Marie’s and leave with them as well, but for once he only grins and does not boast, out of a need to keep that night to himself.

“Hah, well, as long as you didn’t make the mistake of fallin’ in love with her,” one of them teases.

“Better to kick a rattlesnake than to love a whore,” another man quips, to the general agreement of the others. “At least the rattlesnake won’t rob ya blind!”

Still laughing amongst themselves, the cowboys leave him to his meal, but the sausage and cornbread sit in his stomach like a lump of rock. Alfred doesn’t disbelieve them, he hasn’t survived this long by being that stupid. Yet whenever he closes his eyes, he sees Frances with him, in a home they’ve made for themselves, happy and free and loved.

So what if it’s only a dream, why shouldn’t he try to make it come true?

 

The plan might have worked if Frances apparently existed. Alfred never sees her again after that night, and the only one who goes out to feed the doves at dawn is a stubbly-bearded man he thinks might be the cook. Not that he has been watching the parlor house that religiously, he just happens to ride by it after running early morning errands.

The cook waves to him once or twice during these encounters, and he waves back politely, but the man is not Frances.

Then it occurs to Alfred that he ought to ask the belles if they knew where their sister disappeared to. He catches two of them as they walk through town in their fashionable Parisian dresses and parasols, but they do not know a tall twenty-something prostitute with blond hair and blue eyes by the name of Frances. Je ne sais pas, they murmur, and giggling, the girls ask if he would like their company instead. Alfred makes a noncommittal answer, still hoping to reunite with Frances, but he escorts them back to the parlor house anyway.

Once they arrive, he slips away from the girls and into the main room, looking eagerly at the crowd of pretty faces. Not seeing Frances anywhere, Alfred bounds up the stairs to find the room she had taken him to, the one at the end of the hall, he recalls, but the lights are off and the door is locked. He asks a passing servant about the owner of the room, where she might be, but the girl shrugs.

“None of the ladies use that room, sir. It is reserved for the Count, and what company he keeps.”

Everything about this is making less and less sense, and he wonders if he had paid a month’s worth of salary for a fantasy. “The Count?” he repeats dumbly.

“Oui, the Count.” It is the madame herself, and Alfred is hard put to not shrink under the coldness of her glare. She says, “Sir, if you do not have the money to hire one of my girls tonight, then please remove yourself. You are disrupting my business with your foolishness.”

He frowns, but is not deterred from his mission. “Beggin’ your pardon, ma’am, but I have to find Frances, and no one is telling me anything! Please, is there any way you can help me?”

Blonde Marie snaps her fan shut in disapproval. “That I can not do,” she declares firmly. “Did it not occur to you that the women here have their secrets to keep? Leave, or I shall call my men to throw you out.”

But Alfred notices the madame does not say that Frances doesn’t exist, and that right there makes him break out into a grin. “All right, I’ll go, but can I at least give you a message to give to her, if she returns?” He presses a small envelope into the madame’s gloved hands and thanks her before dashing off.

She never really leaves his mind, no matter what he is doing, and he keeps asking about her even after he is forced to leave town for another job. He knows that they will meet again in the future, which is why he buys a golden ring for that day and tucks it into the pocket of his vest, so that it will lie over his heart.

 

The other cowboys notice that he is a little quieter than before, though not by much. He is still earnest and hard-working, and he laughs and jokes as much as ever, but the dreamy look in his eyes shows the world that he is deeply in love. They shake their heads in sympathy sometimes, wondering why a good kid like him should fall for a soiled dove like her. But if anyone could make it work, why, it would be Alfred F. Jones.

 

The cattle drive ends a month later in southern Colorado, and the cowboys part ways in the town, most of them heading for the saloon, looking forward to cool beer and flirty dancers. Instead of joining them, Alfred drops off a letter to his folks back home in St. Louis and another one to his twin brother in college. He doesn’t tell them about the woman he has met, not yet, though he expects to someday. His parents would not approve, and Matthew would tell him he’s crazy, but they said the same things when he first told them he was going to Texas to work on the trails. He is certain they will come to love her as he does, and he thinks about it no more.

It is too late in the day to start his journey back to Arizona, and with no other choice left, Alfred pays for a room at the inn with his newly earned cash. Luckily, he doesn’t have to share his room with another guest, so he goes ahead and takes full advantage of the privacy. Stripping off his dusty work clothes and hanging his hat on the rickety chair, he blows out the candle and hops into the rather dingy bed. Alfred takes a few minutes to relax, bringing up the precious few memories he has of Frances, recalling her musky fragrance, the creamy luster of her skin, the glossy curl of her hair. Above all he remembers her beautiful half-smile, and her eyes, so dazzling blue and so, so sad. What he would do to make her happy and chase away whatever haunted her thoughts, he thinks, and in his dreams, Frances turns to him, and the fragile, yearning look on her face dashes his poor heart into pieces.

Tonight, she is not dressed like a whore, in corsets and satin and lace, she instead wears a white nightgown made of cotton too light and sheer to truly cover her nude body, and he can see the hints of her nipples through her dress, the shadow between her legs as she glides towards his bed. Just imagining her like that is enough to make him hard, although some of the details of her form look admittedly hazy in his inexperienced mind. His callused hands make a poor substitute for her soft and slender ones dancing over his skin, but he pretends that her tender mouth presses against his, while in reality, he takes his cock in hand and begins stroking firmly.

Now Alfred sees himself pressing her into the sheets, and she smiles up at him, guiding his hands over her lean body with her own, leading them down, down to where her long legs meet and God, she is so hot and wet and ready for him. Frances helps him press his fingers into her, teaches him how to touch the spots that make her gasp, and his mouth bone-dry, he watches in fascination as she moans his name and begs her pretty cowboy to fuck her. Faster and faster he pumps his throbbing cock, imagining himself kneeling between her spread legs, entering her, pushing into her surprisingly tight body. He whispers her name over and over, a mantra, a prayer, as he fucks her into the mattress, and she is writhing and keening and clutching at the headboard with one hand, her dress clinging close to her sweaty skin, her nipples outlined clearly through the material. Somehow Alfred is able to hold out for another few minutes as he furiously pumps away, and then finally he comes, white-hot semen splashing over his hand and stomach, even as he fills the panting Frances to the brim. He tries to keep her there with him for just a little longer, so they could embrace and kiss and do what lovers do, but already she is fading away like a ghost, and soon he is alone again.

Alfred slumps exhausted onto the soiled sheets, stretching out his cramped legs, blinking back the tears of frustration. He reaches groggily for a handkerchief and wipes the cum off of his skin with a disappointed sigh. God, he misses her, and dreams of making love to her don’t satisfy his need as much as just seeing her in truth would. 

God, he misses her, and dreams of making love to her don’t satisfy his need as much as just seeing her in truth would. She could accept or reject his love, but he vows to not rest until he can find her and be with her one more time.


	2. Upstairs Girl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I really liked this fic when I first wrote it because I like cowboys and there needs to be more, but I think I portrayed America as too stupid, which is a pity...

The next morning, he leaves town with a saddlebag of supplies, his tall bay horse prancing and eager to go. He prays that Frances had received the message, that she is safe, that she is waiting for him, but he knows from experience that praying doesn’t get anything done. He sets off towards Arizona without looking back, his heart so full it hurts, and yet he is smiling.

The first town he stops at is a small mining settlement in the hills, Drywood Gulch, barely big enough to be called a town. Alfred has been through here before and figures it wouldn’t hurt to ask around, just in case.

“The girl steal your money or something?” the sheriff asks gruffly around a wad of chewing tobacco.

“Not exactly,” Alfred answers with a laugh. “I just thought if anyone would know, it’d be you, sir.”

“We-ell, can’t say that I’d know for sure. The French girls mostly keep to themselves, when they’re not keeping to themselves, if ya know what I mean.” The sheriff spits out his tobacco as Alfred nods, and he continues, “And I sure as hell ain’t about to go poking my nose in the Count’s affairs.”

Again, that mysterious man. Alfred has to ask, “Who is this Count? What does he have to do with anything?”

“He’s in charge of the girls who come here from France, so I’m told. We see his carriage come through town maybe a couple times a year. He never causes any trouble, strangely enough, and well, I don’t want to start none if I can help it.”

“I see,” Alfred says, looking thoughtful. “Well, thanks for the information, sheriff, I appreciate it.”

The sheriff claps a hand on his back and wishes him luck, though his tone sounded frankly skeptical. Alfred just grins and thumbs his hat as he makes his way back to his horse. He hasn’t really learned much that’s useful, but the Count… it sounds like he should keep an ear out for him as well, because surely he must have known Frances.

Ever hopeful, Alfred hesitates in front of the Drywood Gulch’s parlor house. He dismounts, spurs jangling, but before he could make up his mind on whether or not to go inside, the door crashes open and a burly drunk miner sails out into the street. Alfred stares at the man slumped unconscious on the ground and then at the shabby yet bustling brothel, not certain if he would find someone like Frances here, but determined to make sure.

Once he enters the parlor house, he doffs his hat to the painted ladies playing cards in the sitting room and says, “Excuse me, I’d like to speak to whoever’s in charge here.”

“Aww, that don’t sound like any fun,” one of the whores teases, looking at him up and down boldly to the amusement of the other women. “C’mere, boy, you can play with me. I’ll make you a man!”

The women, painted and corseted and crass, laugh uproariously as he turns red and tries to come up with a reply. At last they take pity on him and a freckle-faced girl points to where the madame is eyeing him suspiciously. Alfred hurries over to her, thinking this was probably not one of his better plans.

Though it turns out this madame no longer had any French girls in her pay, she grudgingly names two nearby brothels that the Count had visited in the past, places where he could find someone of Frances’ description. She asks if Alfred would like to stay here in the company of one of her girls - for a price, of course - but he declines the offer, stating that he must leave.

“You’re a queer one,” she says, shaking her head exasperatedly, probably irritated that he didn’t want to part with his money. “A whore isn’t worth being faithful to, no matter how pretty she may look in a dark room. You’ll break your heart over her, and even if you do find her, she won’t remember you out of the countless men she’s slept with. I’m telling you, boy, do yourself a favor and forget about her.”

Alfred clenches his fists, feeling the weight of the golden ring warm against his chest, the sum of his hopes and dreams. She may be right, but he believes in Frances, and most of all, he believes in them.

“I thank you for the concern, ma’am, but I gotta find out for myself.”

 

The woman perches in the curve of a silver hoop suspended high above the stage on a length of twisted silken rope. She swings slowly back and forth, crooning softly in French, and Alfred squints up into the smoky darkness at her. Far below the sweet melancholy notes, lonely men carouse to their heart’s content, the serving girls keeping their cups filled while the whores keep their laps warm.

His heart falls when he realizes that the singer is not Frances, too small and curvy by far, with hazel eyes instead of blue. Because he hasn’t actually paid for anyone’s company tonight, Alfred is forced to duck out of sight when the sharp-eyed owner glances in his direction. Crawling under a series of tables and sneaking behind some curtains before climbing out a window, he makes it out of the brothel with no one (probably) the wiser.

Including himself, he admits as he mutters ‘giddyap’ to his obliging horse and heads out. Three towns in the past two weeks - White Oaks, Cripple Creek, Loneview - investigating and interrogating with the determination of a man on a God-given mission, and Alfred is no closer to finding Frances or the Count than before. It’s like she never existed, and not even asking about the Count reveals any new information, for no one seems to remember meeting him, and the belles conveniently forget how to speak English when he presses them further for answers.

A dream woman, a shadow man, and dreams and shadows do not survive too long out here in the relentless sun of the western frontiers.

Only Tombstone remains, where this started. Maybe Frances had gone for good, but maybe she received his message after all, and is waiting for him where they first met. With nothing else in mind, Alfred decides he might as well head back.

 

The rough and tumble town had apparently grown wilder in his absence, and though Alfred keeps an easy, oblivious smile, the men in the streets regard him with flinty, suspicious eyes, their hands hovering near their holsters. It sounds like the bar and saloon has suffered no lack of business, as rollicking piano music and laughter and curses spill out of the windows, though across the way the sheriff and his cronies grimly keep watch for any disruption to the uneasy peace.

Whistling a jaunty tune under his breath, Alfred turns off the main street and heads toward the quieter outskirts of town, where the parlor house is tucked out of sight of the more moral-minded citizens. He rounds the corner expectantly, then stops in disbelief, staring thunderstruck ahead of him.

The building is still there, elegant as ever, but the windows are dark and dusty and the painted front door boarded shut. Judging by the dirt piling up on the doorstep and the tough scraggly weeds sprouting from the dry ground, no one has lived here for weeks, maybe even months. Alfred’s first thought is that everyone had died, been dead for years, that this town had lived up to its name, and he shivers despite the heat, certain that he had been taken in by some freakish brothel of the undead. Just when he starts frantically unknotting his bandana to make sure he did not sustain any vampire bites, someone perfectly normal and alive steps out of a side door and onto the porch to smoke a cigarette.

Relieved, albeit cautiously so, in case vampires were able to light cigarettes without setting themselves on fire, Alfred dismounts, nearly tangling his boots in the stirrups but recovering instantly, and he bounds over to the person to catch them before they disappeared as well. “Hey! Hold up!” he calls out, and the person looks up at the sound of his voice.

“Oh, it’s you!” Alfred beams at the vaguely familiar face, his disappointment momentarily forgotten in the excitement of finding someone he recognizes. He reaches out and shakes the man’s free hand heartily, while the man stares at him in surprised amusement.

“I’m Alfred F. Jones, how d’you do? You must be the cook, right? I remember you from when I was in town last!”

The man nods and tries to take his hand back as politely as he could in an effort to preserve the function of his fingers.

“You don’t happen to know where everyone went, do you?” Alfred asks, oblivious to the cook’s slightly pained grimace once he lets go. “I’ve been looking for someone who used to work here, a lady named Frances. Thought she might still be around, but I reckon maybe not anymore...”

Trailing off, Alfred searches the other’s face for any reason to hold out hope, and the cook sighs and flicks the ash off of his barely touched cigarette.

“I think you should come inside with me, Mister Jones,” he murmurs, his voice low, his English strongly accented. “It is a long story, with an ending you may not want to hear.”

Alfred’s eyes grow wide and round, and he can’t help but whisper, “Whoa, it ain’t a ghost story, is it, Mister Cook? I-I don’t like ghost stories. Or ghosts.”

“How fortunate that I am very much alive,” the cook assures him, smiling as Alfred thanks the Lord under his breath. He follows after like a puppy, trusting and more importantly, famished.

Eventually Alfred realizes that he does not know this man’s name as he stumbles over yet another variation of "Mister Cook," and the stranger hesitates for a second before answering him.

“Bonnefoy. My name is Bonnefoy.”

 

The story is simple enough, and as Bonnefoy sets a bowl of beef stew and some bread out in front of him, Alfred sets to the meal with relish.

It seemed that after years of dazzling the town of Tombstone with her lavish displays, Blonde Marie had apparently made enough money from the parlor house to retire and go back to France. The whores who could not afford to return with her had been relocated by the Count to other brothels. This house, bereft of its inhabitants, its painted walls whitewashed and imported furniture moved, now waits to be sold, though so far no one had expressed any interest in a building tainted with such ill repute.

Already on his second bowl of stew, Alfred glances up at the cook, who had grown silent. The explanation only left more questions unanswered, and he could not think of which to ask first. So he asks them all.

“Is that why you’re here, Mister Bonnefoy? Because you couldn’t afford to go back to France?”

The other man laughs, a silken sound that would make anyone’s heart beat faster, male or female, and to his surprise, Alfred feels something warm and familiar coil in his stomach, which could not be entirely attributed to some of the best damn food he’d eaten in a while.

“Not quite. It is because I killed a man in Paris, or rather, several men, and there is still an order out for my arrest. I must stay here until the police have… stopped their investigations.”

Swallowing a mouthful of beef - oh God, he hopes it’s beef – down with difficulty, Alfred asks, “Oh, but you, errr, you don’t do that sort of thing anymore, right? Right?”

“There is nothing to worry about, cher. With the Count’s support, I have reformed, and the only wickedness I’ve indulged in recently is to be expected in my surroundings,” he replies with a winsome smirk.

Alfred decides to take Bonnefoy at his word, trying hard to not imagine him with a butcher’s knife in hand, and he rambles on cheerfully, if somewhat nervously. “Well, I guess that’s the best sort of job to have, kinda makes me wish I could make food half as good as yours. But don’t it feel lonely now that you have no one to cook for, Mister Bonnefoy?”

Bonnefoy raises an eyebrow, but nods, and then smoothly deflects any further questions about himself with practiced ease. “And may I ask why you are here, Mister Jones? You said you were looking for someone?”

“Yes!” Alfred exclaims, almost ashamed to have forgotten about his belle while talking to the cook. “Her name is Frances, though I don’t know her last name, and she is beautiful and strong and sweet, and the best lass I could ever ask to meet. I know what you’re gonna say, that she’s not worth it, but I’ve never met anyone I’ve wanted more, and I’d do anything, anything in the world, to see her again!”

His outburst over, Alfred looks up from his empty soup bowl to see Bonnefoy’s warm and approving smile, and it makes him blush. Feeling suddenly awkward, he scrubs his hands through his hair in a distracted motion, making his hat tilt backward at a crazy angle, and then a realization finally hits him like a lightning bolt out of the blue.

“Wait a gosh darn second, you know something, don’t you?” he says as he gets to his feet, knocking his chair over. “Sure ya do, she used to feed the birds outside every morning! And you must’ve seen her do it, because you fed ‘em, too!”

“I can’t deny that I know of her, Alfred,” Bonnefoy says quietly, “but what I know will not help you. She is gone, probably for good.”

There is a hot twinge behind his eyes as Alfred says in a mostly steady voice, “I can’t give up, though. Haven’t you ever been in love before, Mister Bonnefoy? You know how it feels when you can’t be with them. Please, if you know something...”

And yes, he has been in love before, long ago, he would fall in love every night and out of love the next morning, and he knows love hurts and that is why he wants to spare this young man from the pain. But those gorgeous blue eyes are looking at him, pleading, and he can not say no, as much as he needs to. He will hate himself for lying to Alfred again; still, if the fact that he was a murderer didn’t scare him away…

“I make no promises, but… if you stay and help me clean the house, we might find something useful, a clue or a hint-”

Alfred crows in triumph and throws his arms about Bonnefoy, giving him a bone-crushing bear-hug. “That ain’t no problem, sir! Thank you, thank you so much, I’ll do whatever you need me to do!”

“You may start by letting go of me so I can breathe.”

 

It was too late in the day for them to really start cleaning, but Alfred does his best to sweep the doorstep and pull out a few weeds, while Bonnefoy starts another batch of dough to bake for the next morning. He prowls around the nearly empty house, and then ventures upstairs to where the sleeping quarters are. Each room he peeks into is quiet and empty save for the heavy bedframes, very little trace left of the sinful activities that took place there a few months prior. He is about to open the door to the room at the end of the hall, his face bright red from the memories, when Bonnefoy’s voice behind him makes him jump.

“Would you like to use this one?” he asks, pushing the door open into a room that was still fully furnished and just like what he remembered.

“N-no, that’s all right! I, well, I thought the Count used this room?” Alfred mumbles, his cheeks burning.

“Eh? Oh, I suppose so, but now I sleep here.”

“Then I’ll take another room.”

“That’s not necessary, Alfred, the bed is big enough for the both of us,” and Bonnefoy is looking at him expectantly, managing a perfectly innocent expression.

Part of Alfred wants to refuse the offer, the very idea is scandalous, and yet he can’t help but stare glassy-eyed at the sumptuous bed, remembering and aching for her more than ever. He sputters out something about his last time at the parlour house, and Bonnefoy smiles and spares him from further embarrassment.

“I will try to find some blankets and pillows for you, then. But… the offer is there, if you need it.”

“I doubt it will get that cold,” Alfred says, now urgently wishing for some privacy.

 

It does get a little chilly in the desert regions, but that is not why Bonnefoy is woken later that night by a tentative knock on the door. He murmurs a sleepy “Is that you, Alfred?” and Alfred bursts in, his face white.

“S-sorry, Mister Cook,” he whimpers, “I know you said there weren’t any ghosts about, but…”

“Come here. If we are both together in the same room, they will not dare to disturb us.” Looking sheepish and grateful at the same time, Alfred slides into bed next to Bonnefoy, snuggling under the covers, though not touching the other. Bonnefoy keeps his eyes closed, but he knows Alfred is still awake and so he reaches out to put a comforting hand on his arm, and they eventually fall asleep in each other’s embrace.

Bonnefoy had woken up hours ago by the time Alfred opens his eyes, and yet he knows the cook had kissed him good morning. He rubs his cheek absent-mindedly as he clambers down the stairs to the kitchen, the scent of fresh-baked bread sneaking through to the rest of the house.

While the cook delivers his bread to the rest of the town, Alfred cleans the house as thoroughly as he could. Unfortunately, the whores left little of their personal lives behind. He finds a lone earring in the corner of one room, and in between the floorboards of another, a coin and some pins. Scraps of paper with writing seemed to hold promise of clues, but these were not fresh-faced maidens daydreaming of a knight in shining armor, and what he could make of the notes were more receipts for transactions than love letters.

 

A week, then a month passes by in comfortable companionship, and though Alfred eventually gets over his fear of ghosts, he still finds an excuse to sleep in the same bed. He even manages to enter the room without blushing too much, and while Frances never really leaves his mind, her absence doesn’t hurt as much as it used to. Every now and then, Alfred takes a job working as a spare cow hand for the cash, and when he gets home, Bonnefoy has made him his favorite meals. Their conversations over wine or whiskey are pleasant, and sometimes when they’ve had a bit too much, they tell each other outrageous lies and laugh and drink until they have to lean on each other to get upstairs to bed. Despite his being obviously French, Bonnefoy proves to be a wonderful friend and confidante, and Alfred thanks his lucky stars for this, even though he is not able to find the love of his life, at least he is not alone.

Today, Alfred investigates the closet in Bonnefoy’s room, and indeed, there is a gentleman’s black suit and top hat hanging there, and for some reason, plenty of dresses and petticoats and women’s underthings. He closes the door, not wanting to make a mess of the clothes, but then his eye falls on the black lace and pale blue silk of a corset that seemed familiar, and with a trembling hand, he unpins the note attached to the trailing ribbons.

Alfred doesn’t say anything to Bonnefoy that night as they get ready to sleep. He sits at the edge of the mattress, watching as the cook takes off his white jacket and trousers until he is only wearing a shirt, and he wonders, briefly, about what could have been.

They blow the candles out and go to bed as usual.

When he wakes up, the sun has just broken over the horizon. Alfred glances over at the still dozing Bonnefoy, at his long golden hair tousled and falling over his handsome face just so, and he doesn’t really know how he could be so blind to what had been right in front of him all this time. He reaches for his shirt and the golden ring meant for Frances falls out of the pocket and into his hand as if it wanted to be there. With a little smile, he takes the cook’s hand and slides the ring onto the finger where it fit perfectly. He kisses that hand reverently, and Bonnefoy snuffles in his sleep.

“It was you, wasn’t it? You’re the one,” he whispers, and his heart will likely burst from the heaviness of this revelation, because he feels stupid and hurt, but most of all he feels happy and relieved and so in love.

“Wake up, my love... my Frances,” and Bonnefoy, hearing his name, wakes up.

**Author's Note:**

> There was indeed a French madam named Blonde Marie who worked in Tombstone, Arizona. The Count, the man who oversaw the French madams, apparently existed as well.


End file.
